a
slice for Manders too. It was no good trying him with another version
of the "Singing-Bird"; but "Mother's Son," which had lain neglected ever
since it was sent back three years before, needed only a word of change
and a touch of polish. October, November, December. . . . Eric would be
ready for America in the New Year.

The next letter was from Agnes, begging him to write occasionally to
Jack; the next from Lady Lane, wondering when he was coming to Lashmar.
A firm of topical photographers respectfully begged leave to send a
representative by appointment to interview Mr. Lane and to enrich their
gallery with a few camera-studies of the house and of the author at
work. The other letters were invitations and charitable appeals.

At ten o'clock he telephoned to ask when he could see Barbara, but was
told that she had not yet been called. After two more unsuccessful
attempts, he sent a note by hand, inviting himself to tea, and spent the
rest of the morning at work on the manuscript of his novel. Shortly
before luncheon his interviewer arrived with an assistant bearing a
camera, and for half an hour the flat was filled with the smoke and
powder of the magnesium flares. Eric submitted sheepishly to being
"discovered" looking (in profile) out of his dining-room window, to
being "interrupted" at his desk (three-quarter face), to being found
taking a moment's respite for thought and a cigarette (full face, with
his back to the smoking-room fire); finally he was dressed up in hat and
coat and shewn to be saying good-bye in the hall. While the assistant
packed up his camera and tripod, Eric allowed himself to be interrogated
on his past and future work, his plans and views of art.

"Have you anything _new_?" asked the interviewer. "I've got all the old
stuff out of '_Who's Who_'."

Eric spoke vaguely of the novel, the play and the course of lectures in
America, remembering the threadbare commonplaces of such illustrated
interviews as he had read; it were fruitless to fancy that he could vary
the form or fact of what was being so industriously scribbled down.

"Nothing expected for some months? I must work up the back stock. I
shall want you to tell me in a minute what _started_ you writing plays.
. . . Now, about your engagement?"

"My engagement?" Eric echoed.

The man nodded and moistened the end of his pencil in anticipation.

"Why, that's what I'm here for! I don't say," he added apologetically,
"that this stuff w